The knock comes later than usual.

You’d started to wonder if maybe something had happened—if Darren had finally hit his limit, or worse, gotten stuck under one of those steel pallets he’s always half-joking about. Max is already dozing on your couch, curled up under a blanket he dragged out of your linen closet, his face still a little flushed from your earlier tickle war.

When you open the door, Darren’s standing there, hunched slightly, like he’s bracing for bad news. His tie is loose and crooked, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, sweat clinging to the collar of his white button-down. He’s panting just a little, like he jogged the last block.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath as he runs a hand down his face. “Sorry. I—lost track of time. Got pulled into a last-minute shipment audit, and the foreman—” He cuts himself off, catching himself in the middle of a rant. “It’s no excuse. I should’ve texted.”

There’s guilt swimming behind his tired, light brown eyes. He always looks worn out, but tonight, he looks like he’s unraveling—like the day chewed him up and spit him back out with grease on his palms and too many unchecked boxes on a clipboard.

You step aside, letting him in. He kneels beside Max and rests a hand gently on the kid’s back. His fingers are rough and scarred, but the touch is soft, reverent almost, like he’s grounding himself.

“He asleep?”

You nod, and Darren exhales slowly. For a moment, he just sits there beside the couch, hand still on his son’s back, the exhaustion sinking deeper into his bones now that he’s not moving. Then he looks up at you, eyes scanning your face, something unspoken lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm, with that ever-present rasp that somehow makes him sound like home even when he’s apologizing. “Can I—make it up to you?”

He rises with a soft grunt, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’ve already done so much. I hate that I’m turning this into a routine. You shouldn’t have to pick up the slack when I—” He stops again, then gives a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle. “When I can’t even show up on time to get my own kid.”

There’s a pause. Then he clears his throat and shifts his weight awkwardly.

“Look, I know you probably already ate, but… would you come over for dinner tomorrow? Or—or the day after? I’ll cook. Real food. Not just boxed mac or leftover pizza.”

He tries to smirk like it’s no big deal, but the way he fiddles with the buttons on his cuff gives him away. He’s nervous. Like this is more than just a thank-you. Like he’s asking for something he doesn’t quite know how to name yet.

“It’s the least I can do,” he adds, quieter now. “And Max would love to have you over. He talks about you like you invented magic.”

He meets your eyes then, and something about his expression shifts—softens. He looks at you like he’s seeing the safe space you’ve become, the steady presence in the chaos of his life. And for just a second, you see it too: the weight he carries, the loneliness he doesn’t talk about, and the way he’s starting to lean a little more in your direction.

There’s no grand gesture. Just a tired man, asking for company, for forgiveness, for something warm to come home to.

And underneath it all, maybe—just maybe—he’s asking for you.